Titles, Inc.

In The Ring

Gilbert, born in Mexico, is a construction worker in the neighborhood.  He comes into the bookstore to visit “my mom” he says, as he hugs me.  He came in one day to tell me he accidentally sliced though his leg, pantomiming cutting a plank across his lap with the  knife continuing to slash beyond the plank.  I was amazed when he told me how many stitches were needed to sew it up.  “It doesn’t look that long,” I said.  He said, “They count the stitches in all the layers they have to close.”  Yuch.  I didn’t know that. 

Gilbert had been a boxer. Now, evenings, he is at the gym as a trainer. He manages and trains several boxers.  He visited once with a small slender young man and introduced him as one of his boxers.  So now I know what the lightweight category looks like up close.  Very lightweight.  When I expressed skepticism about his being a boxer, he showed me his arm muscles, and rigid stomach.  Never-the-less, I had a feeling that if I caught him off guard, I could easily push him down.

Gilbert has two teenage daughters who, he told me proudly, are planning to go to college.  He has a four-year-old son whom he is training as a boxer.  “Why?”  I asked.  He said, “He can protect himself in our neighborhood.”  The little boy loves boxing and has won two matches already.  He does wear head gear Gilbert assured me.

Yesterday Gilbert visited to tell me that one of his boxers, Francisco Paco Rodrigues, 25 years old, a National Golden Gloves champion before he turned pro, was in the 10^th round of a fight and winning, when he stopped the fight because he wasn’t feeling well, was rushed to the hospital where he died two days later of brain injuries. “Paco donated his organs. Everybody loved Paco.” Hundreds of people went to the funeral service. The police came to manage traffic and to escort Paco to the cemetery.

Paco’s death changed Gilbert.  He said he has given up training his young boxers.  He admits that he saw a drop of blood from his own ear on his pillow, so he knows he mustn’t box anymore.  And he won’t let his son box.  His son says every day, “Daddy, take me to the gym.” 

Gilbert says, “I used to come home from work, eat dinner with the family and go straight to the gym to work with my boys.  Now I come home, we eat, and I stay home.  I just sit.  I am so bored.  I am so bored.  And my little boy keeps saying, “Daddy, daddy, take me boxing.”

--- Florence

Driving Test

When you go to update your driver’s license and need your road test, if Hilda, a grim woman with a downturned mouth, calls your number, suddenly remember you have an emergency phone call to make, or a bellyache, or whatever you can think of to remove yourself at the moment, and do it.

Before I got to Hilda, though, I presented myself at the front desk and laid down the mailed official notice for renewal, and my insurance card straight out of my glove compartment. He said, “I need your insurance card.” I pushed it forward. “That’s your registration.” By golly, he was right. I went back to the car, went through the compartment and found insurance cards of several years past. Nothing current. I went home, and Art and I checked all our little papers – no current proof of insurance. Many phone calls later, we were faxed up-to-date information.

Back to the license facility where I am processed at a counter. The eye test. “Press your head against the bar, it will light up, read the letters on row E.” They were in three adjoining columns. Column 1 was illegible, 2 and 3 were fine. “Column one doesn’t light up,” I said. “Sure it does. Read it.” I squinted, I opened my eyes wide, I closed one eye, I closed the other. Then I guessed. And zipped along through row two and three. Whew. I knew I could read.

Then she said, “Sit there for the written test.” “Written?” I was dismayed, “Nobody told me written.” She took the mailed notice out of my hand and pointed to the words. You mean people read the form letter?

I asked her, “What do you think? Should I get the booklet and read it now, or will I know the answers? I mean, I’ve been driving all my life.” She said, “What does the sign with the round yellow ball mean, without the words on it, just the shape.” What? “Uh. Hmm,” I am thinking hard. She said, “Railroad. Read the book,” and whispered, “Study the signs.” I open the booklet to the signs. There are pages of signs. The sign for School is an outline of a building. I never made the connection. I memorized. Then I turned to the text. Skimmed it. I go to the test counter where they give me a red pen and a long sheet, the front covered with multiple choice, the back entirely covered with outlines of signs. Noticing my horror as I realized I recognized only the RR and the Stop, she said encouragingly, “You are allowed seven errors. And put your booklet on the floor.” The multiple choice was easy, except for what happens after you get a DUI. I read all the offered answers and couldn't believe the stiff punishments, and guessed wrong. The answer is "all the above." As for the pictures of the signs? I struggled through them – they make much more sense when they have words on them. I passed the test with only six wrong. 

So on to the witch lady who went with me to my car. An immediate problem. I couldn't find the car. It was freezing out. She said she’s wait against the building until I found it. I found it and waved to her. She stood outside the car and barked instructions, turn signals, brake light, horn. She got in the car, and said, “No talking. You do not talk to me and I do not talk to you except to give you directions.” No talking? “Start the car and back out.” I do, and proceed as she directs, cautiously. She shrills, “Signal, signal, signal!” I stop, thinking I went though a stop light, or stop sign, and turn around to see what’s back there. As my body turns, my arm comes out, and she shrinks back and presses against the door. Trying to calm her I smile, and ask, “What signal?” “Your turn signal, why are you laughing, and you didn’t use your turn signal!” Since I had just come around a slight curve, of course I didn’t use my turn signal. She’s outraged, “Why did you laugh and keep driving without the turn signal?”

Knowing I am not allowed to talk, I didn’t know how to respond, especially about the laughing part. I said, cautiously, “I will be more careful.” And, oh boy, was I. I hugged the corners, watched the speed signs and stayed right on 30 mph where indicated, and my turn signals were flashing like crazy. Finally at the rear of the lot and behind the facility, there was a long empty stretch of parallel lines for parking. “Pull into any of the parking lanes.” So I did, beautifully. She screams, “You didn’t use your turn signal. Again. I told you when you turn your steering wheel, use your signal!” “In a parking lot?” I asked astonished. “Of course. You turned, didn’t you? That’s two marks against you. You are this close to failing.” Thoroughly cowed, I drove us back to the front of the facility, and pulled in between the red car and the truck, as directed. Hilda had another Aha moment. She railed, “You didn’t signal! Didn’t I just tell you to use your signal? I just told you. How many times do I have to tell you? You parked without using your signal! I am not here to teach you. I am here to test you. You are this close to failing!” I held my breath. “I’ll pass you,” she said reluctantly.

I go inside to get my new license with my new picture. Nice picture. As I got back into the car to drive away the dashboard gas light popped on, indicating I was close to driving on an empty tank. “Oh thank you, God!” I knew that if Hilda had seen I was that low on gas, she would have thrown me out, and commandeered my car.

--- Florence